


Trying

by taylor_tut



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Character, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A little character study. Geralt realizes that he'd been ignoring Jaskier's quite obvious signs of illness all day and tries to make it right.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 659





	Trying

Nothing irritated Geralt more than feeling like there was something wrong, but not being able to put his finger on what.

The day had started normal, if a bit quiet, but now, in the silence of the night, he was realizing how much he relied on Jaskier’s chattering. When night fell, his thoughts started to race, and though he’d rather fight a kikimora blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back than admit it, he’d taken to focusing on benign things to slow them—trying to recall the lyrics of Jaskier’s songs from the day, replaying in his mind the tunes Jaskier had played on the lute, repeating the stories Jaskier had told him.

Battles were traumatic for Geralt; there was no way of getting around that. But hearing the day’s exploits through Jaskier’s eyes, it helped him distance a bit from it; it took the sting out of it. 

Jaskier today had woken up sore, complained a bit. 

_“Why can’t we have ONE morning where we sleep past sunrise?”_

_“You want that, bard, have it. I will be well on my way.”_

So Jaskier had sighed and forced himself to get on with the morning.

By the time the sun was all the way up, Jaskier was beginning to struggle to keep up. Geralt tried his best not to snap at him, but the downside about everyone assuming he didn’t have feelings was that he’d never learned to properly learned to conceal them, and the irritation was obvious. Jaskier had pushed himself to go faster and faster until he’d finally tripped over his own feet and fell hard into the dirt road, scraping his palms and knees badly. Geralt had put him on the horse’s back and he’d been quiet ever since, until Geralt had decided that Roach needed a rest and stopped for the night. He’d gone out to the forest only briefly to find water and some food, and by the time he’d returned, Jaskier had already gathered every threadbare blanket they had and curled up on his side to sleep.

As he gazed down at Jaskier, shivering even under all the blankets, thinner than he’d been when they’d met—when had that happened?—pale and with dark circles under his eyes that were usually hidden by his dopey smile, he wondered how he’d let things get this bad. Even with his Witcher constitution, Geralt felt half-dead most of the time these days, going sometimes days between proper rests and skipping meals until he scarcely had the energy to put one foot in front of another. 

Jaskier complained about it; of course he did. He whined when he was hungry and struggled to put one foot in front of the other when he was exhausted and sang annoying songs about his aching feet until Geralt was finally irritated enough to set up camp for the night. 

He told himself that it was just dramatics; if Jaskier was really so uncomfortable, he’d do something about it other than whining. 

If he needed food, he’d stop and forage, maybe fish a little, while Geralt pushed forward. 

_But then who would make sure you ate?_

If he needed rest, he’d stop at any of the towns that they passed by and get a room at an inn with a nice, soft bed. 

_But then who would make sure you slept?_

If he needed more than Geralt could give, he could leave. 

_But then who would you have left in the world?_

Jaskier stirred in his sleep, a strained look on his face, and Geralt could feel, even without his Witcher senses, that it was more than just a bad dream. This was pain, and suddenly it clicked that he’d been feeling it all day, just hadn’t said anything. 

He reached out and pressed his hand to Jaskier’s forehead, finding it warmer than he was comfortable with, and sweatless: probably because he’d barely drank anything all day and then skipped dinner in favor of sleeping. Geralt cursed himself for being so thick and he had to make it right.

“Jaskier, wake up,” he commanded quietly. When he didn’t stir, Geralt reached out and shook his shoulder as lightly as he could, which startled him awake with a jolt. “Easy.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, his voice raspy in a way Geralt had noticed earlier but didn’t think much about. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re ill,” he said simply. 

Jaskier looked puzzled. “How did you know?”

“You told me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jaskier denied with a confused frown.

“Yes,” he argued, “you did. Earlier, when you said you were cold and shivering.” 

“And you said that it was a mild day.” 

Geralt nodded because that was true—he had brushed it off as if it were an observation about the weather rather than a thinly-veiled request for a break. 

“When you said you were too tired to keep walking.”

“And you said we couldn’t stop until sundown.”

Another nod, this one a little more pained. “When you said your throat hurt.”

“And—”

“And I told you to quit talking so much, then,” he curtailed. “I know.” He turned to the fire and scooped a ladleful of hot tea into a mug and handed it to Jaskier, who merely stared at it, blinking slowly. “Herbs,” he explained, and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Specific; thank you.”

“Do you want it or not?” 

“Alright; alright,” Jaskier folded, putting his hands up in a mock surrender that let Geralt know, if he could read between the lines, that he’d been too harsh. He took a deep breath through his nose and released it through his mouth as Jaskier sipped the tea tentatively, then smiled. 

“There’s honey,” he noted happily, and Geralt nodded. Typically, he’d have Jaskier choke it down without, telling him to tough out the bitter taste that tended to linger even after the beverage was finished. 

But he was trying. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, and though Geralt typically objected to praise that wasn’t in the form of coin or other useful amenities, in this moment, the word didn’t make his skin crawl. In fact, even if he’d never admit it, it meant something to him. 

“Sleep, bard,” Geralt instructed, taking the empty mug from his hands and sitting back against a rock. “If you need anything…”

Jaskier smiled lightly, tiredly. “I won’t,” he reassured, “so don’t worry.”

Though it was clearly a joke, no malicious intent behind it at all because it was _Jaskier_ , for gods’ sake, it made Geralt’s heart clench a little. 

“If you need anything, I am here.” 

It was the first time he’d said anything like that and the first time he’d wanted to; the first time he’d known what it might feel like to be confident he could protect someone he loved and the first time he’d promised such. He wanted to give his life without the threat of losing it, to hand over his heart without the threat of it being spat upon and trampled by yet another person who believed there was nothing inside. 

Jaskier reached out and, with a too-warm hand, squeezed Geralt’s. For one night, it was enough to simply be.


End file.
